“You’ve been of tremendous assistance to me, Miss Lennox,” he declared. “The case becomes more complicated than ever, but all the same I feel it in my bones that we shall solve it. Inspector Goodall here will confirm my opinion.”
The Inspector smiled grimly, but whatever remark he may have been about to make was stifled by the reappearance of Sergeant Clegg at the door of the Museum Room. Clegg saluted smartly.
“A word with you, Inspector, if you please.”
Goodall turned to Charles Stewart. “Mr. Stewart,” he said, “I should be obliged if you would take Miss Lennox and Mr. Llewellyn into the library—I will join you in a few moments—I want to have a little chat with them—thank you.”
Peter Daventry had been half hoping that the Inspector would dismiss him too, but his luck failed. He was more reconciled, however, when he listened to Clegg’s report.
“A trunk-call was put through on the night of the murder, Inspector, to Blanchard’s Hotel, Clifford Street, W. I worked on the lines this gentleman suggested—although as it happened he was a good bit out in his reckoning as regards the time.” This last remark left his lips triumphantly.
Anthony looked up—puzzled. “How much, Sergeant?” he inquired promptly.
“Eleven minutes,” Clegg announced judicially.
“Good Lord, Sergeant,” said Anthony, “I was afraid you meant hours”—he broke off and shrugged his shoulders.
The Sergeant looked aggrieved. “Eleven minutes is a long time, if I may say so,” he urged—defending his position—“you try and catch a train when you’re eleven minutes late.”